I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. They don’t now. The reward is mine. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. So he shut his eyes. “Quite on my own,” she said. . .
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